Christmas Night
by Suffering Angel
Summary: late Christmas fic. weeeee. ahem. --- a 7 year old child wishes to celebrate Christmas with his mother. but how can he, when she's dead?


I don't own Digimon Frontier

All hail me, the queen of late Christmas fics!

Sorry if this isn't all that… I donno, it looked better in my head -_-

**_Christmas Night_**

It was Christmas night. The air was quiet, and as though filled with fairy dust, giving everyone a hard case of the holiday spirit. All over the country, children were fast asleep, trying to pose as good for when Santa came down their chimney. 

Save for one child.

A small boy of 7 years peeked into his father's room, and half smiled when a loud snore was heard. He closed the door silently and ran back to his room where he picked a well-prepared bag. Glancing at the hall and seeing it was empty, he hurried down the stairs, stopping every few steps to see if he wasn't pursued. Reaching a hand to the railing, he found the decorations he put up the previous night. His father congratulated him on putting it up on his own, yet even the regret he felt for not helping his son didn't make the boy happy.

Deciding that wasn't the place for it, he took off the decorations as he went along and shoved what he could into his bag and pockets.

The stairs seemed out of place for the holiday, but the boy didn't care too much. He'd put everything back into place. He has the past year. His father didn't seem to notice a thing.

Placing the bag next to the Christmas tree, he hurried over to the kitchen, careful not to make a sound that would alert his father to his doings. The boy then climbed a chair next to the fridge, reaching a well hidden paper bag filled with Christmas cookies, another one of the child's own handiwork that Christmas. He looked at the cookies with bright eyes as he aligned them evenly on two plates. 

Once the task was over, after about three times in which he realigned the cookies, he put some water to boil before running to the living room again. He knew full well his father forbade it, obviously worried for his only son's safety, but the child nonetheless lit a fire in the fireplace. 

The noises that came from the kitchen let the child know the water had boiled and he left there once he was sure the fire was in check.

Attempting to climb the chair again, this time next to the cupboard, he fell down, dropping the cup he managed to get hold of. The cup broke and he hurried to collect the shards. Picking a big shard in a careless way, the child cut himself, but ignored it until he got rid of all the shards. His small hands were covered in blood but he simply washed them and wrapped the cut with a bandage, as though oblivious to the pain.

The water were deemed warm enough for what he needed and so he poured them into three cups, this time successfully bringing the mugs down from the shelf. Choosing the best marshmellows, he prepared three cups of cocoa and took them along with the cookie plates to the fireplace. One was placed on the fireplace itself, another beneath the Christmas tree, and the final mug was placed next to the bag, which the boy knelt next to.

Taking out the bag's contents, he took out the decorations from the stairs, a small wrapped box, and a picture frame which was placed face down.

"Sorry, please wait just a moment, I'm almost done. I just want you to like this."

It was expected that the wound on his hand would pull him down, yet he skillfully hanged the decorations on the tree, in perfect coordination with the previously hanged ornaments, and the tree seemed as though all the add-ons were previously planned.

His father had helped him with the tree earlier that night, wanting desperately to spend some time with his child. He kept trying to strike a conversation about things the boy would be interested in and even asked him several times to come up with a topic for a discussion, yet the child only ignored him for the most part, not knowing what to say at first, not interested the rest of the time. However, he couldn't deny how good it felt when his father lifted him to hang the star and let him ring the bells that were attached to it.

"An angel just got his wings."

The father said.

Having a certain angel in mind, the child could only hope so. That, however, was the most the two had spent together that Christmas.

For a moment all the boy did was look around him, disturbed by the feeling that something was off. The fire in the fireplace, the tree's decorations, the picture… He stopped himself from reaching to it. Not yet. It wasn't perfect yet. Taking a sip from his cocoa, he had to spit it out quickly. Now, in addition to the cut on his hand, his tongue was burned as well. But as he looked around, trying to find something to help get his mind off the pain, his eyes wondered to the two socks above the fireplace. One was bigger than the other, as his father insisted he didn't need that many sweets on Christmas morning. But that's what was missing, the child realized as he dug into his bag again with his good hand. He extracted from it a well made sock, deep red with furry white edges and stood up, looking for the perfect place to hang it. His father's sock was small, but still rather in the middle, and his was as much on the side as he could. A moment of hesitation later and the small sock was pushed aside and in the middle was hanged the sock which had 'mom' written on it in silver-green letters. He tried not to think of how many times he stung himself, trying to knit it in.

Finally feeling rather satisfied, he sat down again, this time extracting the last item from his bag. It was a small heard shaped box wrapped in the traditional red and green colors along with little Santas and reindeers. He placed it down in front of the face down picture and took a deep breath. For a moment he did nothing but try to choke the sob that rocked his body, tears threatening to fall, but he quickly wiped them away and pasted a happy Christmas grin on his face as he placed the picture upright. The woman that smiled at him resembled him a great deal, and her eyes were warm, a look he never had the chance to see for real. He felt embarrassed, as though all he's done wasn't enough for her, though had the woman been real, she would've surely stopped him halfway through his preparations, claiming it to be too much for her.

A blush rose to his cheeks as he pushed the gift a bit farther towards the picture, eyes downcast.

"I… I know this isn't much, but… please… I hope you like it…"

He knew she couldn't possibly respond, but a small part at him just kept on hoping.

"Merry Christmas, mom…"

His father watched him silently from the stairs, wanting to comfort his son with all his might.

And somewhere in Tokyo, a mother was weeping over a picture of two babies, one who was then sleeping peacefully in his bed, the other wishing to celebrate Christmas with her with all his heart.


End file.
